


Here to Stay

by irregardlxss



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cherik - Freeform, Families of Choice, Gen, Pietro being a insecure l'il shit, just mentioned though sorry dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irregardlxss/pseuds/irregardlxss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pietro steals a certain asymmetrical maroon cape, Charles overreacts, Pietro runs laps. Lots of laps. All the laps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here to Stay

**Author's Note:**

> so I totally and shamelessly screwed with characterization of Charles to get my point across sorry guys

The inability to breathe is actually getting kind of alarming. God. It's happened before, but Pietro doesn't think it's ever been like this. He can't. Frigging. Breathe. 

  He keeps hauling air in. Well, trying to. It's really not as effective as he would like. He sucks desperately at the atmosphere, lungs screaming for oxygen, but it refuses to oblige and he just keeps running and pushing harder and faster because the prof said so, and he has to do what Charles says because it's Charles' house and he's only there as a student and might have to leave at any minute and he really doesn't want to do that and totally the one who screwed up and running the prof's laps is totally the least he can do. 

  This sucks, though. 

  He _hurts._ Everywhere. Like, his thighs and calves burn. _Burn._ He didn't even know that could apply to him. Literally. He had no frigging clue what that felt like. Until like twelve seconds ago. And _damn,_ it's not a good feeling. 

  He's also not wearing any shoes. 

  For real. He doesn't actually remember when, but at some point Hank's magical Pietro-proof rubber vanished entirely and now it's his bare feet pounding on the gravel of the track and he thinks there might be blood involved but he hasn't stopped to look. 

  It's the teensiest bit alarming. 

  The lack of air is becoming a genuine problem. His lungs are supposed to be _better_ than this. Dammit. They should be working. _Working?_ You know, doing their job? He's a mutant for a _reason._

  His whole lung-operating system didn't seem to have gotten that memo, however. 

  There's black foggy crap around the edges of his vision. _What. The. Fuck._ Never. Never in his life have his eyes done that. 

   _Hello? Sight-organs? Oi? What kind of shit are you trying to pull?_

  It terrifies him, so he runs faster. 

  Through his somewhat malfunctional (totally not a word, but who the fuck even cares about that) eyes, he keeps an eye on Charles' face. His _stony_ face. The, like, _totally freaking not impressed with Pietro_ one. His stomach burns. Shame. 

  It matches the burning in his lungs quite impressively. 

  He totally did _not_ think nabbing that cape thing from the profs room would be that big a deal. Honest! He just wanted to look. It's not exactly like an asymmetric maroon cloak really fit the guys M.O. Wearing capes is kind of hard, anyways, when you're _in a freaking wheelchair_. 

  How would that even work, anyways? Like, would it go on the profs shoulders and dangle behind the chair itself? Wouldn't it get caught in the wheels?

  Either way, the prof freaked. They had _words_. Well, Charles did. Pietro didn't really have the chance to get _words_ in. He was a little preoccupied with trying not to sprint away screaming. 

  Or burst into tears. 

  So, yeah. One weirdass cape, and Pietro got the freaking power-hungry angry fascist _high lord_ of all lectures, and is now running at his top speed around a fast-deteriorating track outside Charles' mansion while the prof himself looks on in _fucking implacable disappointment_. 

  He hurts. His body is killing him, as previously expounded on - he doesn't know how long he's been running, but he's like ninety-nine-point-several-thousand-more-nines sure that it's been hours - but his emotions are causing some major pain, too. 

  He made Charles mad. He _let him down._ That fact is using whatever fucking machine Hostess drills holes in twinkles with to drill a Pietro-sized one in his annoyingly oxygen-deprived chest. And not filling it up with sweet shit, either. 

  He's at the mansion only because Charles believed in him, an he's already proving the guy wrong. 

  He can't feel his legs anymore (he's heard that's kind of a sensitive phrase around here, so he won't say it out loud, but it's true). They're just pumping, feet pounding the ground as it rolls inexorably by. His lungs feel all tight, like there's an enormous bear-hug going on and he's the unfortunate recipient.

  If there was a bear hug, he wouldn't be able to tell, because his eyes seem to be taking a vacation. 

  Damn. This is _weird._ He actually has no fucking clue what to do about it. Charles said to run, though. So he runs. Harder. He tries to, at least. The world is spinning. Maybe. It's a valid possibility that he's the one spinning. Either way, something's fucked up. 

  He trips, and doesn't remember hitting the ground. 

  

 

  Hank careens outside just in time to see the Maximoff kid turn from a streak into a wildly tumbling, limp body. Charles just looks on, stony-faced. 

  Damn. 

  He ignores Charles, running by him to check on Pietro. The kid's unconscious, and covered in scrapes from what must have been a pretty epic deceleration, but doesn't seem to be too permanently injured. Sweat drenches him. Hank's right in the middle of doing a first aid course, so he does the proper pat-down thing, and nothing seems broken. Feeling virtuous, he rolls the surprisingly light body into the fetal position. 

  Then, he whirls on Charles. His mentor's wheeled slowly closer, and, despite the fact that Pietro is _passed out on the ground,_ he still looks _furious._

  "What did he do?" Hank demands. Charles may be furious, but he's pretty angry himself. Pietro's hyper and annoying, but he's a _good kid._ And nobody deserves to be ran until they literally can't anymore. 

  "He was snooping in my room," Charles snaps. "He stole Erik's cape from my personal things."

  Hank can't actually believe it.

  "So you make him do laps until he _passes out?_ "

  "I was watching," Charles fires back, defensive. "I was going to stop him after he started flagging."

  " _He's freaking Quicksilver._ Just how were you planning on _seeing_ him 'flag'?"

  Charles stops himself before he can yell whatever he was planning on yelling. _Good._ Hank wouldn't have dreamed of talking back to him, before, but ten years with a guy as he slowly turns into a druggie can really affect your perception of him. And he's _mad._ Driving Pietro that hard is completely unfair, especially since it seems like it was Erik that Charles was mad at. 

  Behind him, Pietro moves. He turns around in time to see the kid, groaning, try to haul himself onto his feet. 

  He, for obvious reasons, stops him.

  "Hey. Don't get up. You're going to come with me to the infirmary in a minute," he tells him. 

  The guy stares at him, lids flickering around enormous brown eyes. One side of his face is swelling, and he has gravel in his chin. 

  "But-" Pietro manages. "I was running laps - the profsaid - InickedaweirdcapethingandI'mreallyreallysorryandyou'reprobablyfuriousandI'lltotallyleavethenIguess - "

  Hank cuts him off. The kid's obviously exhausted, and there's no point tiring him out. Besides, there was no way he was actually going to _understand_ with him speaking that fast.

  "No more laps. The professor overreacted," he announces, glancing meaningfully at Charles as he talks, "and you need the infirmary. Can you stand up?"

  Pietro tries, launching himself upwards against Hank's proffered arm. He doesn't actually succeed, though. Halfway up, he drops back to all fours and pukes in the spent, uncontrolled way of someone truly exhausted. 

  Hank's head is roiling. Charles must be feeling pretty damn bad right about now. He doesn't think he can actually look at the man. The vomit is gross, but Pietro seems like a safer focus point. Plus, the kid is shaking, and he doesn't trust him to hold himself up. For once, Hank manages to actually try some modicum of comfort, too - he puts a hand on the wiry, sweat-coated shoulders and pats awkwardly. 

 After Pietro finishes and wipes his mouth on his unsteady wrist (gross, but Hank cuts the kid some leeway), Hank scoops him up, ignoring both his complaints and Charles' entire presence. He stalks inside. 

  Pietro is pretty much asleep by the time they make it in. He sets him on a bed, and, figuring that it's best to just let him rest, covers his body with a sheet and hunts down an extra pillow. 

  When he finally turns around, a little more level-headed, Charles has slunk in. If it's possible for someone in a wheelchair to _slink._

  "Well?" he demands, feeling absurdly like a righteous parent for a moment. It passes, though. 

  "I honestly was expecting him to stop himself." Charles tells him. "I didn't think he would keep going until he ran himself unconscious."

  Hank cocks an eyebrow, a skill he's spent _years_ trying to figure out and only recently accomplished. Did Charles honestly not know the kid at all?

  "Have you even been watching him?" he sputters. "He's _terrified_ we're going to make him leave. He hasn't even unpacked yet! He would do _whatever_ you tell him to do, just because you said it. Of course he wouldn't stop! He's convinced you're going to toss him out."

  Charles actually visibly _wilts_. Finally. Some semblance of guilt. 

  "Actually?" he mutters. 

  Hank nods. 

  "Out of curiosity," he asks, "why were you so mad, anyways?"

 

  Ouch. 

  That about sums it up - ouch. Pietro _aches._ Not any specific part of him. Just _him,_ period. All of him. Everywhere. He's _killing_ him. 

  Which only makes sense if you really work at it.   
   
  Jesus. His face stings, too, and his chest and lungs and throat and he doesn't think he's ever actually _felt_ the aftermath of running. Ever. 

  He opens his eyes. Even his fucking _eyelids_ ache. And one of his eyes won't open fully. Yikes. He _thoroughly_ beat himself up. He has _talent_. For, you know, accidental self-harm. Not many people could hurt their _eyelids_ coming out of a fall. That one takes skill. 

  Charles is watching him. He snaps his eyes closed again. The one eye has to be bruised. Hopefully it's a cool colour. 

   _Shit._

  That's it. He's got to go. He blew it. He really actually did. He knew he was going to. He wasn't _actually_ going to be able to stay. No way. Not him. _Shit._

  A hand lands on his shoulder. Charles' hand, precisely. He realizes that he's vibrating and endeavors to stop vibrating. 

  "Pietro," Charles says, and Pietro actually _flinches_. Like some kind of flighty marmot. Christ. He braces himself. 

  "I am so terribly sorry."

  What? Pietro's eyelids snap open again, which _hurts._ Charles is leaning over him. Guiltily. And concernedishly. Probably at the expression of _bald shock_ on Pietro's face. 

  He picks the randomest time _ever_ to notice that Charles has a really weird nose. 

  "Hank was right. I did overreact. The cape you took has a bit of an emotionally charged history, and I wasn't thinking clearly. Talking the cape was wrong-" Pietro shrinks away "-but it wasn't you I was truly angry at. Driving you that hard was unacceptable."

  Pietro quirks his head. Well, he would, if his neck didn't _bite_ him as he tries. 

  "What kind of history?" he demands. His voice is killer raspy. He can barely get the words out. And there are _so many questions_ building up inside them and they need to come _out._ Think shaken pop bottle. He's not sure how the gross throat would work there, but he generalized idea comes across. Mostly. And the fact that the words used to say "convey meaning" mean basically "cross something" confuses him. 

  Charles gets a really impressive strangled look on his face when he hears Pietro's take on a _voice_ , but he actually answers. 

  "It belongs to a man I loved, but we had a difference of opinion about humans and mutants and fought quite-"

  "The guy that dropped a stadium on the white house," Pietro interrupts. Even he can't tell if it's a statement or a question. And _damn_ is the inability to talk properly annoying. 

  Charles grimaces. "Yes. Magneto. He-"

  "Has a really awful fashion sense. Come on, prof, he was the best you could do?"

  The grimace changes into something darker, and Pietro clams up. He's gone too far. Again. It would be easier to just constantly assume that Pietro has gone too far, honestly. Probably more accurate, too. _Why_ can he not keep his mouth _shut?_  

  The prof seems to notice Pietro shrinking in on himself, and the look of concern is back. Along with the shoulder-hand. 

  "Pietro, you realize that I would never force you to leave this house? As long as you want a place here, you have one."

  There's weird pressure building up behind Pietro's eyes. The pop bottle analogy would actually be totally accurate here. Unless you took that to mean that if you shook him too hard, his eyes would pop out, because that would be less accurate. 

  There may be some fluid leakage involved, though. 

  Pietro wants to _run_. He wants to be _gone_ , far far away.

  But he also doesn't. 

  Well, his legs feel like black holes were set loose on them and it would probably fucking hurt, but it's more than that. He _likes_ this, likes having friends and a cool place to stay and a really big house and all sorts of food he doesn't feel guilty about eating because Charles can pay for it, the guy is loaded, and people who are _totally cool_ with his mutation and how it's part of him because they're mutants themselves.

  He _wants_ to stay. He just can't believe they would want him. 

  " _Really?_ " he rasps out. 

  Charles just looks at him, warm and concerned and _fatherly_ , and squeezes his shoulder. 

  "Really, Pietro. My home is yours."


End file.
